“Well, let’s do some reflection, Marnie. You binged. Terribly. You ate a million peanuts, a big helping of spaghetti, a Peep, two Reese’s Peanut Butter eggs, a chocolate bunny, two small chocolate butter cups, a packet of chips, blueberry cheesecake, a Kit Kat, a peanut Kit Kat Chunky, a packet of jelly babies, a date-and-nut flapjack, a piece of KFC, a can of Orangina and three strawberries. I think that is it. Plus all the sweets and Italian you ate yesterday. Oh yeah and some goji berries! But you forgive yourself. Oh yeah — you also ate that corned beef bagel. With mustard. But I forgive myself. I forgive myself. The food will digest and I will feel right again. I know that it hurts now but it will not always hurt. But damn, binge eating does make me tired. So very tired.”
I found that written on a torn-out sheet of newspaper when I was going through some papers just now. I remember that day. I was desperately sad, sitting in a McDonalds, lonely and beyond stuffed. It was about six or so weeks ago; not recent, thank goodness. It just proves to me the marked, amazing difference in my life when I am not binge eating, as opposed to when I am. I am so much happier when I am not bingeing. I am so much better.
I know I need to commit to the Overcoming Binge Eating program — I am ready for it — but I have been unable to as yet. After two false starts, I was just about to begin afresh almost two weeks ago when life put a big hurdle in my way. Or a big SLOW DOWN sign, depending on how you look at it. The SLOW DOWN sign was an accident.
I was going to volunteer at a music festival in the country for five nights. I was rushing around to get everything together because I left the prep ’til the last minute, as I always do, but I was basically ready. I had to leave my house at 5am to get a 6am train from the city to the festival. Just before 5am, I realised I had to get a wriggle on. Suitcase packed, I started to walk down the staircase to my front door, pulling my case behind me. But the weight of the suitcase made me lose my balance and I tumbled down the (carpeted) stairs. I hoped I would stop halfway down, but I did not. I smashed into the ground at the bottom, with my left shoulder taking most of the impact. My right arm copped some as well.
Turned out I’d broken my wrist and clavicle, the latter quite badly. A couple of awkward, painful weeks, lots of tea and sympathy and a major operation later, here I am, on the mend. The whole episode was a setback, but not a disaster. I was well looked after, and I will heal. But it has meant some things have had to be put on hold. Such as starting a dance class; vigorous exercise; getting a second job; and beginning the Overcoming program, because, at the moment, I am pretty much unable to write.
Mum thinks it was life telling me to slow down, relax and take things easy. Maybe she’s right. I must say, I’d been so anxious since I’ve been here that I am not surprised something went wrong. But it’s OK. In many ways, life right now is good. I haven’t binged since the night before my accident — exactly two weeks, actually. And I have started new anti-anxiety meds, and tomorrow I meet my new psych. I’ve also been having fun and exploring the city, and meeting new people.
My nifty pink cast will be on for another five or so weeks. When it comes off, I will be able to start the program. Until then I’m trying to eat normally — generally healthfully but not in a restrictive way. I will try to avoid bingeing by “surfing the urge”, as they say. Here goes!